My Grandmother’s Doll by Emma Jochum

In my room,

On my top shelf,

Rests my grandmother’s doll.

 

She has a porcelain face and glass eyes.

Her hair is shiny and her dress is lace.

I hate her.

 

I’ve hated her ever since mother gave her to me.

“This was your grandmother’s.” She said.

Keep her here to remember her by.

 

She looks at me.

She stares.

Always watching.

 

I haven’t slept because of her.

Every time I close my eyes,

I can still feel her glaring at me with hers.

 

I put her in our attic.

“I’m afraid she’ll fall.”

Is what I tell Mom.

 

I can sleep now.

Sleep without worry or care.

Sleep unbroken by my grandmother’s doll.

 

In the morning she is there,

On the shelf,

Watching.

 

I seal her in a box,

And put her back in the attic.

Mom’s trying to be funny.

 

The next morning,

I look at the vacant shelf.

She is on my dresser.

 

I bury her in the backyard.

Deep, deep down in the ground,

A heavy garden rock on top.

 

I wake up to find her in my arms.

Hair tangled, face smudged,

Hands caked with dirt.

 

She really is a nice doll.

She smiles as I brush out her hair.

She holds my hand in hers.

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